Bang… bang… bang…
Uekusa Tomoyuki dribbled the ball steadily, his steps light and precise. In a flash, he crossed into Miuradai's half-court.
Seeing this, Miuradai's players immediately scrambled into position. Their defense, though hurried, tightened quickly as they prepared to meet Ryonan's first wave of attack.
But before their formation had even settled—
A white figure cut through the baseline like a ghost.
By the time the Miuradai players realized what was happening, the opponent was already under their basket.
Uekusa's eyes narrowed. Without hesitation, he flicked his wrist—
Swish!
The ball shot forward like an arrow, threading perfectly through a narrow gap between two defenders.
The Miuradai players barely had time to react before the pass reached its target. And when they saw who it was, shock spread across their faces.
Sendoh.
He exploded upward, right arm raised high, muscles tensing in perfect form—
Clang!
A one-handed dunk slammed through the hoop, shaking the backboard as the net twisted violently.
Ryonan scores first.
Ryonan 2 – 0 Miuradai.
Such speed.
The Miuradai players froze for a split second, their expressions stiff. None of them expected Sendo to cut in so fast. They hadn't even had time to react.
Offense switched.
Araki Kazuo brought the ball up slowly, lowering his center of gravity as his eyes darted over Ryonan's defensive setup, looking for an opening. His fingers twitched slightly—ready to call a play.
But before he could even make a move—
Whack!
A shadow burst out from the flank. Uekusa Tomoyuki accelerated like lightning, reaching out and cleanly snatching the ball from Araki's hands.
Araki's heart lurched. He spun around to chase, but before he could even take a step, Uekusa had already released the ball— his steal and pass happening in one seamless motion.
The ball flew ahead like a bullet.
Koshino Hiroaki was already waiting for it near the three-point line, having anticipated the play like a predator stalking its prey.
He caught the pass and rose immediately—no hesitation, no pause.
A fluid jump, lift, and release.
Swish!
The net sang again.
Ryonan 5 – 0 Miuradai.
And then, the chaos began.
Miuradai tried to reorganize, but before the ball could even cross half-court, Koshino pounced again—darting from the weak side like a phantom.
Whack! Another clean steal.
Ikegami Ryoji lunged in from the sideline, scooping up the loose ball without breaking stride.
He charged down the court like a wild bull.
The Miuradai defenders, still backpedaling, could only reach out helplessly.
Clang!
Ikegami took flight and hammered the ball home with a thunderous two-handed dunk, shaking the entire rim.
Possession changed again.
Miuradai couldn't even breathe before the ball was taken back.
Ikegami stuck close to his man, shifting left and right before cutting in—
Another steal.
Ryonan immediately countered.
Uozumi caught the pass, bounced it back to the perimeter.
Koshino stepped in—his balance imperfect, his feet barely set— but his shot cut through the air as if guided by instinct.
Swish! Swish!
Another three-pointer. Clean. Ruthless.
Time ticked away, but Ryonan's control only grew stronger.
The scoreboard climbed rapidly—
18 to 0.
The crowd buzzed in disbelief. Even Fujima Kenji and Hanagata Toru, watching from the stands, had turned serious.
"So strong… In just five minutes, Ryonan's crushed Miuradai 18–0,"
Ayako murmured, staring at the scoreboard, her voice trembling slightly.
She already knew Ryonan was a powerhouse, but even this was beyond her expectations.
Sakuragi Hanamichi pouted.
"Miuradai's just weak!"
Kogure pushed up his glasses, eyes calm but sharp.
"No… they're not weak. Ryonan's just that strong."
He paused, his tone dropping low.
"And… that guy hasn't even stepped onto the court yet."
At those words, everyone from Shohoku instinctively turned their heads toward the bench.
Ake sat there quietly, a white jacket draped over his shoulders, arms crossed, gaze calm and indifferent— as if the storm on the court had nothing to do with him.
To the average spectator, Ryonan looked unstoppable— their offense flowing like a relentless tide, crushing Miuradai wave after wave.
But to trained eyes, the game wasn't so simple.
Hanagata folded his arms, observing quietly.
"Ryonan's offense flows beautifully," he said evenly.
"Miuradai doesn't stand a chance in a direct clash."
He paused, narrowing his eyes.
"But… Miuradai isn't the type to go down easily."
Fujima nodded. They both knew Miuradai's style well.
Ryonan's dominance was impressive—but to them, it wasn't yet overwhelming.
For now, they were simply a strong team.
On Ryonan's bench, Coach Taoka Moichi crossed his arms, watching his players' flawless performance with a satisfied grin.
"Everything's going as planned," he murmured. "Keep this up, and victory's ours."
Ake said nothing beside him, only watching quietly. His eyes tracked every movement—every pass, every run, every defensive rotation—as if recording them all in his mind.
Then suddenly, his heterochromatic eyes narrowed. A cold glint flashed within them.
Beep!
The sharp whistle sliced through the rhythm of the game. Everyone froze, turning toward the basket.
The referee raised his arm and pointed.
"Miuradai number 4 — defensive foul!"
Bang… bang… bang…
The ball bounced away, rolling to the sideline like discarded evidence.
Uekusa clutched his wrist, red marks visible across his skin.
He glared at Kengo Murasame.
"You bastard…"
Murasame simply raised his hands, feigning innocence. A smirk tugged at his lips, hidden under his shadowed brow.
Free throws for Ryonan.
Swish! — first one clean.
Clang! — second one bounced off the rim.
One for two.
The game resumed.
But what came next, no one expected.
Beep!
The whistle shrieked again.
The ball hit the backboard and flew out of bounds.
Koshino was down, clutching his hip, sweat beading on his forehead.
Moments ago, as he rose for a jump shot, Takatsu Hiroshi had charged in from behind—elbow raised far too high—and slammed into Koshino's waist midair.
"Koshino!"
Ryonan's players rushed over to help him up.
Ikegami frowned.
"You okay?"
Koshino gritted his teeth.
"I'm fine… damn it. That guy did it on purpose."
Ikegami pointed angrily.
"Ref! That was intentional!"
Takatsu lifted both hands, feigning innocence.
"I didn't mean to! My foot slipped, that's all."
But a faint smirk betrayed him.
Uekusa snapped, pointing.
"Liar! You clearly did that on purpose!"
Still, the referee only called a regular defensive foul.
No technical. No warning.
The Ryonan players clenched their fists, their faces dark with anger.
Uozumi glared daggers at the ref. Sendoh stayed silent, lips pressed tight. Ikegami spun around in frustration, nearly storming forward.
But they couldn't do anything.
They were players, not officials.
The game had to continue.
The rhythm changed.
Beep! Beep!
The whistle started sounding again and again.
Each time, it was Miuradai's defense—pulling arms, stepping on feet, bumping hips, throwing sneaky elbows.
Each move subtle, perfectly timed.
Painful, but not enough to get ejected.
Vicious, but just within the rules.
Once, Uekusa drove in for a layup—Murasame slammed into him mid-air.
Once, Uozumi grabbed an offensive rebound—Takatsu shoved his shoulder down.
Once, Koshino's heel was stepped on mid-run.
This wasn't defense anymore.
It was organized harassment—a web of fouls meant to drain patience, wear out stamina, and chip away at morale.
Ryonan's players gritted their teeth, barely containing their fury.
They couldn't lash out—not here.
But Miuradai's dirty tactics were working.
Ryonan's rhythm faltered. Every shot came with hesitation—every drive, with fear of another hit. Their once-fluid offense began to stumble.
Meanwhile, Miuradai's morale flared up.
Their bench roared with cheers after every foul, as if celebrating.
And slowly, the scoreboard shifted.
Ryonan was still ahead, but their dominance was fading.
Each point felt like a struggle through mud, while Miuradai clawed back through sheer dirtiness.
When the dust settled, the score stood at:
Ryonan 31 – 16 Miuradai.